


[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Peter Parker, Bottom Wade Wilson, Brutasha - Freeform, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous Smut, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mentions of Gwen Stacy/Mary Jane Watson, Mentions of HYDRA Bob/Jack Hammer, Other, Peter Parker is an Avenger, Prostate Milking, Rimming, Smut, Spideypool - Freeform, Sub Wade Wilson, Top Peter Parker, Top Wade Wilson, Wade has Feels, Wade's lack of refractory period, dominant peter, mentions of Nick Fury - Freeform, submissive wade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 21:50:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8261567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: After a sexy night in, Wade and Peter have plans together for their unprecedented day off, tomorrow, but . . . “the best laid plans of mice and men,” as Burns once noted. Nevertheless, happy ending is RIDICULOUSLY HAPPY. So, yeah. Fluff. Smut. Pure, unadulterated fluff-smut. Flut. Full prompt in end notes.Notes/Warnings: AU. No nutritional value. No warnings, either. Also? Shameful misappropriation of one of the greatest poems of the English language: [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in].ALSO? MAD CREDIT, YO, to Epervier, for the idea of Wade drawing sexually explicit images on a note. I lifted that, whole cloth, from the AWESOME fic: Deadpool Thinks Donald Trump Is French For Moodkill! Read it, if you wanna read Wade-drawings done right!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Britt524](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britt524/gifts).



[White]

{Yellow}

_Deadpool_

 

**Wade**

 

Wade Wilson stepped out of the bathroom, having just rinsed and hung up the washcloths he’d used to wipe down himself and his lover after a goodly portion of the night spent making love—dinner had been missed and breakfast wasn’t terribly far off, which Yellow, budding gourmand that he was, grumbled about—and found himself struck unusually still and silent for a few moments.

 

In their bed, Peter Benjamin Parker, a.k.a. the Amazing Spider-Man, was reclined in such an unconsciously sensual and sybaritic pose of relaxation, his perfectly defined body displayed, well, _perfectly_. One arm was tucked behind his shaggy, sable-haired head, the other curled lazily on his sternum, just above his abs. One long, pale leg was bent and listing slightly toward the bathroom and Wade, the other stretched out straight. The long, bony toes of his long, bony feet were twiddling sleepily, slowly, despite the fact that Peter was, Wade knew, quite alert.

 

{How can you _always_ tell when he’s alert? His freakin’ eyes are _closed_!} Yellow exclaimed in utter exasperation. {Who’re you? Kreskin?}

 

[Oh, do be silent for a short time, won’t you?] White asked Yellow with traces of absent irritation. [Take a moment or several simply to . . . reflect.]

 

{On _what_ , oh, Dalai Lama?}

 

[On the exquisite young man whom we love with all our hearts, lying so comfortably and trustingly—not to mention _beautifully_ —in our bed. Safe as houses, for once, and not getting shot at, stabbed, or subverted by alien parasites.]

 

{Oh. Right.} And surprisingly, Yellow took that useful advice _to_ _heart_ , for once, focusing his attention on Peter. On his serenely content, ethereally lovely face: the serious, straight dark brows that could waggle surprisingly doofily, when Peter was of a mind; the now-closed, but clear, golden-brown eyes, as wise and deep as they were young and hopeful . . . at turns amused, somber, loving, wry, or crackling with righteous fire, and framed by dramatic sweeps of long lashes; the slightly long and pointy, but attractively-shaped nose with its oh, so gently upturned tip; the gentle, full, mobile rose of a mouth, kiss-swollen and lushly pink; the boyish, but somehow not _unfinished_ oval of his face . . . the strong square of his jaw . . . and the nobility of his chin; even the sort of stick-out ears that all that shaggy, chestnut hair habitually covered . . . oh, yes. Peter Benjamin Parker was . . . _beautiful_.

 

Wade, White, and Yellow all sighed at exactly the same moment. And Wade simply let his heart fill to overflowing, as was its wont over the past two years. White was composing silent, but stirring sonnets to Peter’s angelic looks and contrary, but so extremely _loving_ nature. And Yellow—

 

{Damn, but our boy looks well- _fucked_ and _wore-out_!} he claimed with great satisfaction and pride. White huffed, and Wade rolled his eyes and snorted softly.

 

 _Yeah, as if you had_ anything _to do with that, dickless._

 

{Hey! No need to be _mean_!} Yellow pouted in Wade’s psyche like a sad child and White was, as always, quick to soothe the other Box, putting aside poetry for pathos. {Whiiiiiiite! Wade’s being a jerk to me _again_!}

 

[Wade, you know better than to get him worked up like this,] White tsked like somebody’s mother. Wade rolled his eyes again. But they immediately came back his Baby Boy, so sweet and innocent, yet sexier than any ten thousand issues of _Play Girl._

 

“You’re staring, sweetheart,” Peter noted in a lazy, but very much awake murmur. Wade blushed, but grinned, leaving the Boxes to their interaction and moving into the bedroom slowly, all but stalking their bed and its reclining occupant.

 

“Am I, Baby Boy?”

 

“Totally. I’d tell you to take a picture—that it’d last longer—but that’s kinda _my_ forte.” Peter chuckled, turning his head a bit toward Wade, but not opening his eyes. As Wade moved across the room, past Peter’s side of the bed, to his own, that perfect face tracked him smoothly, orienting on him and staying that way no matter how much he meandered. Spidey-sense, at its finest.

 

“Oh, I dunno, Petey-pie . . . even a Philistine like _me_ would be moved to take a picture of you, just now. Don’t you look . . . absolutely _edible_ , sprawled naked in our bed and so recently sexed-up by yours truly?”

 

Peter smiled a bit, but didn’t open his eyes or reply until Wade had settled into bed with him once more, and pulled the covers up over them. Peter hummed his contentment and a moment later, those clear, golden-brown eyes fluttered open, locking onto Wade’s own sort-of-muddy green ones.

 

“Don’t tell me you’re already ready for round _five_ , Wade-honey?” Those serious brows quirked wryly. “You _do_ realize that after the past six and a half hours, my asshole is massively sore and roughly the size of the Holland Tunnel, thanks to you and your circus sideshow-dick?”

 

Wade grinned wistfully, proudly, sliding his hand under the Death Star duvet and Star Fleet sheets to stroke his half-hard dick a few times. “Eh. Not _totally_ ready, but . . . I _could_ be. For _you_. Just say the word, baby. No refractory-time, for _this_ big Daddy, as you _well_ know.” He pointed at himself with his free hand and Peter rolled his eyes, chuckling.

 

“Oh, I know,” Peter purred, his eyes going half-mast for a few moments as he gave Wade a _very_ blatant and heated once-over. One that did more to shoot Wade’s half-hard to _fully_ -hard, than all the stroking in the world. “Minimal or no prep-time, at this point, Daddy: Just plug-n-play. I’m pretty loose and sloppy, still, Mr. Overachiever. Thanks ever so much for that.”

 

Snickering, Wade laid back in his pillows—like, _five_ of them, because Peter could be cheap as _anything_ except when it came to their bed and its many expensive pillows and cushions, and ridiculous thread-count sheets—tucking one arm behind his hairless head like Peter had. “Pleasure was _all_ mine, Petey. I could spend all day, _every day_ gettin’ up in that sweet, tight little body and _never_ lose my hard-on for you.”

 

“Mmm . . . you say the most romantical things, dear,” Peter yawned suddenly, covering his mouth with the hand that’d been behind his head, then snuggling closer to Wade, who wrapped his free arm behind and around Peter’s shoulders. “Well, if you’re gonna go for a five-peat, just roll me over on my stomach and try not to wake me up, huh? I’m a growing boy and I need my beauty sleep.”

 

Wade pulled Peter closer to him and the other man settled in his embrace with another contented little sigh, tugging up on their duvet as he tucked his head under Wade’s chin. His soft, perpetually messy hair was fragrant with his herb-y, organic shampoo and conditioner. He smelled of vanilla and mint. Even after two years of cuddling up to that sweetly intoxicating scent, Wade still inhaled _deeply_ every time he had his face near Peter’s hair. Whether they were getting ready to sleep and curled up in each other’s arms, or Peter was on his stomach under Wade, moaning and gasping as Wade did him doggy-style, clutching Peter to him and burying his lucky dick in Peter’s _welcoming_ body, as he simultaneously buried his _face_ in that glorious, heavenly-smelling hair.

 

“Eh. We’ve done _that_ fantasy, already, and it’s not _nearly_ as fun fucking you when you’re not bein’ your usual, responsive self . . . when you’re not movin’ with me and clenching those crazy-tight spidey-strong muscles around me like you’ll never let me go. Not the same when you’re not groanin’ and gaspin’ my name, and wakin’ the _dead_ with those sexy-ass moans of yours . . . fuckin’ _Christ_ , baby, but you’re so _hot_ when you’re all desperate for my dick. Desperate to _get_ _off_.”

 

Peter made a slightly choked sound and shivered in Wade’s arms. “Hmm . . . maybe I _wouldn’t_ mind if you woke me up for the five-peat, babe. . . .” and under the covers, Peter’s deft, callused hand made some pretty meaningful, pointed contact with Wade’s eager dick and heavy balls.

 

He hissed a little, as Peter did a Spidey-patented, Wade-tested and Wade-approved cocktease, all while smiling a small, almost hapless smile that Wade could only _just_ make out from this angle.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Wade breathed, though it was practically a pant, even this soon in the game. Peter was _entirely too good_ at turning Wade’s crank and Wade loved everything about that. “You’re . . . gorgeous. Sexy. Sensual as _fuck_ , Petey-pie, but . . . you and that fine ass need _some_ rest. Without _my_ damn don’t-play-dead dick wearin’ you out further.”

 

Peter made a noncommittal noise, but didn’t stop stroking. Those sultry, golden-brown eyes met Wade’s as Peter looked up. Then he kissed Wade’s chin, lingering for long moments as Wade thrust reluctantly into his grip. “You want my mouth or my hand, babe?”

 

Wade was the one to make a choked sound, this time. “God, Baby Boy, I want . . . _fuck_ , I want _anything_ you’re willin’ to give!” And he didn’t even care how desperate, needy, and _slutty_ that sounded.

 

Peter _liked_ him desperate, needy, and slutty.

 

“Weeeeelll . . . seeing as my jaw’s kinda tired—again, thanks to you, sailor—the hand, it is. But,” Peter nuzzled _Wade’s_ jaw, those clear eyes still blinking up at him, wide, round, and keen. “I’m not too tired to get all up in there,” he murmured, waggling his eyebrows in that silly-serious way again as he cupped Wade’s balls, squeezing gently before those clever, curious fingers made their way to Wade’s perineum—where they lingered, teasing and pinching, till Wade was making embarrassingly _loud_ and hungry noises—then to Wade’s asshole, where they traced around then feinted shallowly inward.

 

“ _PETEY_!” Wade croaked out, spreading his legs, and hissing as the crazy-soft sheets tortured his abdomen-hugging dick and those slim, evil fingers continued their feints. Peter’s wide eyes were ravenous on Wade’s face.

 

“If I _could_ get hard again, right now,” he whispered, his lashes fluttering but not shuttering those intense eyes. “I’d push my cock into you so slow and _so_ deep . . . so _good_ , sweetheart. Spend fucking _hours_ wearing this sexy, greedy ass _out_. I’d make you come so hard and so often, till even the infamous _Deadpool_ was calling for a time-out.”

 

“ _Pete_ —”

 

“ _If_ I could still get it up, that is,” Peter added wryly, stealing another chin-kiss as his free hand whipped back the covers. Then those teasing fingers—three of them, bunched together—shoved into Wade fast and hard, sans lube or prep, because _Peter_? Was absolutely the _best_ and he knew _just_ how Wade liked to be finger-fucked. How Wade liked to be fucked, _period_.

 

Wade made a surprised, garbled sound and arched up off the bed, come fountaining out of him suddenly and forcefully, spattering across his torso and Peter’s arm.

 

“That’s it, baby,” Peter encouraged in his low, even tenor, as his fingers worked in Wade’s body, thrusting hard and sharp even as they crooked and searched for Wade’s prostate. Which they found pretty damn quickly—while Wade was still in the midst of coming his brains out—and applied spidey-strength pressure, till Wade was coming again, his dick shooting shorter, thinner pulses, but no less intense.

 

And Peter kept up the thrusting and prostate-milking till Wade was a limp, sweaty, panting wreck in their bed. A wreck that barely noticed when Peter gently, carefully disengaged from him, pressing kisses to Wade’s chin and throat, before getting up to get another washcloth.

 

By the time Wade was damp, but clean, and able to speak and focus again, Peter was curled up against him, once more, breathing softly, his fingers tracing Wade’s abs under the pulled-up duvet.

 

“Fuck,” Wade breathed, still somewhat pleasure-dazed and come-stupid. Peter chuckled.

 

“Think we already _did_ , sweetheart. And neither of us is in any shape to be doing it _again_ before sun-up.”

 

“Yeah . . . I think I actually _do_ need some refractory time, just this once,” Wade admitted wonderingly, noting that his one-third hard dick was in no hurry to get any harder. “Damn. What you _do_ to me, Baby Boy!”

 

Peter chuckled again. “Remember that time, after we busted that drug-ring Kingpin had going outta East New York? Afterwards, when the cops had taken our statements and I dragged you into that alley, and. . . ?”

 

“And fucked me for the first time?” Wade snorted. “Yeah, baby. _Boy_ , do I remember! Shoved this bitch up against a brick wall, in the dark, all but ripped my pants off, then stuck your tongue, fingers, and dick up my ass till dawn, practically. Yeah,” Wade sighed wistfully again. “I remember that, Petey. I’ll never _forget_ it! I’d never come so hard or so many times in my life! They probably heard the shouting back in _Regina_!”

 

“Good times, good times,” Peter mumbled around another yawn, and Wade laughed tiredly, hoarsely, kissing the mop of messy hair brushing his jaw.

 

“Enough strollin’ down Memory Lane's Red Light District. You should _sleep_ , sweetums . . . ya got work t’morrow.”

 

“Meh,” Peter said dismissively, tugging the duvet up to their chests, once again. He had a tendency to sleep cocooned, like a very sexy and adorable caterpillar. Wade often wound up chilly and uncovered in the middle of the night, spending the pre-dawn hours scowling, without any real ire, over at the tips of his boyfriend’s toes . . . the only part of him _not_ wrapped in blankets and sheets besides his damn _hair_. “I won’t go. Not even on pain of death or unemployment. I’ll come up with _something_ and spend the _whole_ _day_ at home with _you_ , sweetheart.”

 

Wade hummed, feeling far too selfish to try and talk Peter out of this aberrant behavior, despite the fact that it surely violated the other man’s strong Protestant Work Ethic. “Are ya _sure_ , Petey-pie? I don’t want that asshole-boss of yours to be mad at ya.” He really, truly _didn’t_. It was tough enough not killing J.J. Jameson for the slanderous articles he printed about Spider-Man. Never mind the way that asshole treated _Peter_  at work.

 

“Mmhm. I’m sure. Don’t worry.” Peter laughed sleepily, leaning down a bit to kiss the spot over Wade’s heart. Then his right hand came up from under the covers to rest over that same spot, while his left tugged Wade’s left more firmly over his shoulders. “J.J. can suck an _entire_ bag of dicks. Sequentially _or_ concurrently,” he added cheerfully. Wade made a face.

 

" _There’s_ a mental picture that’ll enhance an afterglow,” he grumbled, which was good for another laugh from Peter. Wade found himself smiling, too, and pulled Peter close against his chest, resting his cheek against Peter’s forehead. “Leave _all_ of tomorrow’s plans to _me_ , Baby Boy. Okay? We’ll lay around, eat brunch in bed and dinner, too. Have extra dessert, lots of cuddles, and _Star Trek_ Marathons all-fuckin’-day, from the Reboot to _Beyond_.”

 

“ _Mmm_ . . . I’d let you and Bones double-team me all over Sickbay, till my ass fell off,” Peter said in a purring rumble. Wade snorted.

 

“Only if I could watch that little cutie, Chekov, lay you down across the conn and suck you off, first.”

 

“Deal! Wow, we’ve just successfully and calmly negotiated our first Hall Pass-scenarios,” Peter noted, sounding amused and _be_ mused all at once.

 

“You’re right! But what’s _really_ awesome about _us_ is our matching and slipping grips on reality,” Wade replied blithely, then grinned into Peter’s hair. “Heh, but, yeah. I’ll take good care of ya, baby.”

 

“You _always_ take good care of me Wade.” Peter’s face turned up to Wade’s, his sleepy eyes dreamy and adoring. Wondering. “ _Thank you_.” 

 

“No, Peter.” Wade cupped Peter’s shaggy head in his hand and gently pulled his lover closer. Then he kissed the bridge of Peter’s pointy, perfect nose, lingering as that _over_ full, _overflowing_ feeling in his heart over _whelmed_ him completely. When he could finally speak again, his voice was hoarser and croakier than ever. “Thank _you_.”

 

Peter’s contented, slightly loopy hum trailed into silence before he turned his face just enough to buss Wade’s lips.

 

“G’night, sweetheart.”

 

“Nighty-night, Baby Boy.”

 

In minutes, Peter’s breathing had evened out into soft, occasionally mumble-y snores and Wade, smiling into Peter’s thick, vanilla-minty hair, still cupping Peter’s head gently against his throat, thought with great anticipation of the next day. Of meals in bed and overly-sweet desserts. Of lazing around their cozy, Cobble Hill apartment and sex in their recently re-done shower. . . .

 

. . . of the blue, beribboned _Tiffany’s_ box in his jacket pocket. . . .

 

His smile widened and he closed his eyes, taking his rest as it came. For though he rarely slept—thank you, Weapon X—he found that lying in bed, in the dim semi-dark of their bedroom, with Peter safe and warm in his arms, was _at least_ as good as a full night’s rest had been, once upon a time. Maybe even better.

 

He kissed Peter’s forehead without opening his eyes. “Sleep well, my love.”

 

 

**Peter**

 

At five thirty-seven p.m. of his day off, Spider-Man, a.k.a. Peter Benjamin Parker, stealthily, wearily, let himself into the window of the Brooklyn apartment he shared with his lover, Wade Wilson—formerly known as the mercenary Deadpool . . . but now known as the _vigilante_ Deadpool—and tripped over the sill.

 

He landed in a sprawl in their comfortably cluttered living room, grunting as all the air huffed out of him.

 

“Honey,” he called breathlessly, tiredly, struggling up from the deep pile of their living room carpet, “I’m home!”

 

No answer.

 

“Huh,” Peter sighed, shoving himself to his feet and turning to close the window behind him. The violent light of sunset seemed to stab him in his exhausted, already-burning eyes, and exacerbate the migraine he’d been working on from around the time Fury had used his debriefing as an opportunity to tell Peter all the ways he, Black Widow, and Hulk had saved the world in _exactly_ the wrong, against-regs fashion.

 

Peter, ever one for self-improvement, had nonetheless eventually stormed out of Fury’s office, past an always serene Widow and a tensely distracted Banner, who were holding hands and waiting their turns for their own reaming-outs.

 

“Where’re you off to, Pete?” Banner’d called after him, sounding worried and utterly wiped-out. (Poor guy took longer and longer to recover from Code Greens than he used to. Peter didn't know if _Fury_ had noticed, but _he_ sure did. And he had no doubt _Natasha_ had noticed, too. Though she never spoke to anyone besides maybe Banner about her feelings and thoughts on the matter.)

 

“Well, it’s my day off, after all,” Peter had gritted out with strident, fake-cheer, slamming open the door of the reception area. “So I’m going home to fuck my boyfriend!”

 

“Don’t sprain anything!” Widow’d shouted wryly as the door between them slowly shut. “And tell Wilson he still owes me for hooking him up with the you-know-what in the little blue box!”

 

 _What?_ Peter had thought, confused out of his anger for a moment. But it was _only_ a moment, then the comment was—as usual, when it came to Widow’s weird, enigmatic pronouncements—utterly forgotten as he stabbed his finger impatiently at the **DOWN** button of the Tower’s bank of western elevators.

 

Peter had made it home in record time. And he _hadn’t_ been lying when he’d so crudely informed all and sundry of his intentions to canoodle with his lover. He’d been uncomfortably _hard_ in his athletic cup the entire swing home—not to mention for the literally ten hours-long fight with the damned _Rachnigosh_ landing party that’d swarmed Central Park (frightening joggers and tourists and, weirdly enough, eating three carriage-horses before Spider-Man and the other two Avengers had shown up on the scene ready to kick ass and take names. Though Bruce's Other Guy had been strangely, yet obviously torn-up about the poor, half-eaten horses, and had fought the Rachnigosh with particular zeal and rage)—and despite having fallen flat on his face upon entry into the apartment, he was _still_ hard _now_.

 

And _this_ hard-on? Meant _business_.

 

Shrugging off his spidey-suit with choppy, graceless, angry gestures, Peter was naked by the time he made it to the bedroom, absently fisting his aching dick, hoping to find his boyfriend just stirring out of a rare, but sound nap, all warm and sleepy and pliant. Peter would _hasten_ _along_ that waking process by tongue-fucking Wade to stiff, leaking, aching, _desperate_ arousal. It wouldn’t be too hard.

 

Rather, it’d be _exactly_ that hard. . . .

 

Instead of his ideal fantasy, however, he found an empty, surprisingly neat bedroom. The bed was even made, which Wade _never_ did, even when Peter threatened him with no shower-sex for a week. (They both knew that Peter would cave in less than a day.) The only messy thing was Peter’s desk, which Wade knew, by now, not to touch even to clean or organize. Peter had a _system_ and he _hated_ when anyone fucked with it.

 

But Wade hadn’t touched it. Just tidied up everything else and left Peter's desk alone in its corner near the window.

 

Disbelievingly, Peter staggered over to the empty bed whereon he noticed a note taped to his favorite pillow.

 

Wade’s dramatic, surprisingly graceful script flowed across the somewhat crumpled note, which was written on a piece of paper from their printer.

 

 **Baby B.,** it read, followed by hearts and a small stick figure-drawing of what appeared to be stick-Peter bending stick-Wade over a rectangular object. Stick-Wade’s stick- _dick_ was long and pointing up, and stick- _Peter’s_ stick-dick was, presumably, buried in stick-Wade’s ridiculously spherical—the only round object in the drawing—butt. **Waited in bed for you, naked and hard, till I couldn’t, anymore. So I took the edge off. Still got plenty left for you, though. Always will.**

 

And below _that_ paragraph was a startlingly accurate and disturbingly detailed representation of Wade’s scarred, long, and _girthy_ dick, and his balls, done in purple and pink Sharpie.

 

Sighing, Peter shook his weary head and read on:

 

**Have to run out around noon to help Weas and HYDRA Bob with a Thing. Nothing illegal or even morally questionable. They just need help moving Bob’s mother’s piano into their new place. Since Bob’ll be doing all the lifting/shifting/moving, and Weas’ll be doing all the bitching/beer-guzzling/pizza-eating, I guess that leaves me to be the brains of this two-bit operation. Heaven help us, all.**

**Back before sunset. Stay hard for me, baby.**

**WW <3**

 

Peter reread the note several times in sheer incredulity before putting it on his night-table carefully, with a soft, bereft sigh. After somehow resisting the urge to crumple the frustrating missive up _. Stay hard_ , indeed.

 

He glanced ponderously at his backpack, where it sat on his cluttered desk, and he thought of the small, black velvet box within. . . .

 

Then he looked at an old picture of himself and Wade from when they were dating, set not too far from said backpack. In it, their faces were pressed together and they were both mugging for the camera. Wade had flipped his eyelids inside out, and Peter was doing some sort of weird thing with his lips and teeth, and crossing his eyes.

 

They looked like complete _morons_.

 

Smiling a little and sighing again, he shook his head and looked away from the picture . . . from his backpack and its hidden treasure. If not today, then _tomorrow_. If not _tomorrow_ , then the day after _that_. But someday soon. . . .

 

Someday _soon_.

 

Outside the window, the last gasp of sunset was painting the western sky orange-pink, and nearer the eastern horizon, twilight already held sway. By the time the sun had set completely and the moon had risen, Peter had already showered—refraining from stroking off while doing so, because of the note _and_ because it wouldn’t have been satisfying, anyway—and was face-down in his second favorite pillow, snoring and drooling. Occasionally twitching and mumbling his way more deeply into his fitful repose.

 

Nonetheless, he was instantly awake and _aware_ when his spidey-sense tingled—not in warning, but just in announcement. In welcome. In relief.

 

He was rolling over and sitting up, firing lines of thick, strong, tensile webbing from his left wrist spinnerets before his eyes even opened—he really didn’t need to _see_ to accurately web _any_ body, but especially _this_ body—and pulling his prey toward him quickly and implacably.

 

Not that said prey was struggling to get away.

 

When another body fell across the foot of the bed with a soft _oof_! Peter finally opened his eyes. In the near-total dark of the room, his spidey-sight could still see quite clearly, his strapping, totally _ripped_ boyfriend, all but cocooned in webbing, his baseball cap half-falling off and his right eyebrow quirked up in waspish amusement.

 

“I suppose this’s what a fly gets for stepping into your parlor, Little Spider,” Wade said dryly. Peter snorted and yawned, absently severing the line of webbing just at his spinneret.

 

“This’s _exactly_ what a fly gets for stepping into my parlor. Especially _hours_ later than it promised.”

 

“Aw, Petey. . . .” Wade groaned and started to struggle half-heartedly, wrapped as he was in spider-silk, from shoulders to knees. “Gonna let me go?”

 

“What time is it?”

 

“Um . . . almost midnight.”

 

“Hmm. Not really feeling like letting you go,” Peter admitted, flopping back into his pillows with another yawn, his eyes slipping shut. “Might just leave you like that, all night.”

 

“Ah, _c’mon_ , Baby Boy,” Wade whined. “Been thinkin’ about gettin’ home to you _all day_! Weas and Bob were fuckin’ _insufferable_ and all lovey-dovey. And that damn piano was a fucking _Steinway_ , and fragile and heavy as _fuck_! And—and . . . all I kept thinkin’ about was how much I _missed_ you and wished I was spendin' the day takin’ _care_ of you.”

 

Peter cracked an eye open.

 

“Why didn’t you call or text?”

 

“I _did_! Didn’t get an answer. Figured you were still gettin’ a Fury-style reamin’-out about those freaky-lookin' aliens on the news and couldn’t pick up!”

 

“Oh.” Peter frowned, opening his other eye, too, and sighing. “Yeah. I put my phone on silent for the debriefing, then forgot to turn the volume back up. Said phone is probably still on the living room floor, dead as a door-nail.” Wincing, Peter sat up again, rubbing his face as he eyed his incapacitated boyfriend. Then he reached out absently and turned on his bedside lamp. Wade blinked as his eyes adjusted, then smiled up at Peter adoringly.

 

The last of Peter’s anger and irritation—at _Wade_ , at least—fled like a thief in the night and, as ever, he smiled back. Like the Grinch, his heart always grew _at least_ two sizes when Wade smiled at him like _that_.

 

He tsked. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he murmured, smiling a little as he grabbed Wade and hauled him up the bed, till the other man was lying back in his own pillows, still gazing up at Peter with that intent, adoring gaze. Peter flushed and removed Wade’s stupid baseball cap, tossing it at Wade’s night-table. Then he crawled down the bed, removing Wade’s boots, next, flinging each one over his corresponding shoulder carelessly. He could feel Wade’s curious, amused eyes on him as he touched the webs wrapping those powerful, thick thighs, and they parted—both the webs _and_ the powerful, thick thighs—like magic. The next thing to get thrown over Peter’s shoulders, right and left, respectively, were Wade’s straight-legged blue jeans and the pink boxers with the hearts all over them.

 

Wade was, unsurprisingly, hard. Pointing straight up already, like a flagpole.

 

Peter stared at his boyfriend’s cock, mesmerized and unaware that he was licking his lips in a way that was making Wade not only antsy, but _harder_. Visibly so, like time-lapse video of the best kind, until precome ran down his dick and dripped on his abdomen.

 

“Ya gonna _do_ somethin’ about it, or ya just gonna _stare_ at it, Baby Boy?” Wade whispered in a strained, cracking voice. Peter smiled, absent and promising.

 

“ _Definitely_ gonna do something about it, sweetheart.”

 

Wade moaned—like Peter had _known_ he would . . . when he used _The Tone_ , Wade tended to transform from an indulgent, selfless _Daddy_ to a needy, _greedy_ slut—and began to struggle with a bit more determination against the webbing still binding his arms to his sides. “Unh. Gonna lemme _go_ , now, Petey?”

 

Smirking, Peter met Wade’s desperate, horny gaze, and shrugged. “Prolly not. I kinda _like_ you tied up and at my mercy.”

 

Wade’s eyes widened and he swallowed reflexively. “I s-see,” he stammered. Then his eyes rolled back, and he groaned and sank into the pillows, once more, as Peter licked his cock from root to tip, like a favorite flavor of ice cream cone.

 

Wade’s hips bucked up and Peter chuckled before restraining them easily. Then he proceeded to suck the pigment off Wade’s cock, alternately applying his teeth with an edge of playful sharpness, and humming while he deep-throated his desperate, struggling boyfriend.

 

“God! Petey! God!” Wade kept gasping and panting—and _shouting_ , eventually, until he finally came with a stiff arch and a hard shudder, flooding Peter’s mouth with hot, bitter-salt come.

 

Peter dutifully swallowed then licked Wade clean, slowly bringing him down from his orgasm. But not by  _much_ , before he was kissing his way down to Wade’s balls, (pushing Wade’s legs up and out with a growled: “ _Keep_ ‘em that way, babe.”

 

“Wh-whatever you say, Baby Boy. . . .”) licking his way past Wade’s incredibly sensitive perineum, and finally spreading Wade open to his eager mouth.

 

The noise Wade made when Peter’s tongue breached him was . . . indescribable. Hungry and desperate and sexy and yearning and ashamed and wanton and _so many_ other things that Peter moaned, too, pressing his face against Wade’s ass as he tried to lick and tease his way ever deeper.

 

It wasn’t long before Wade’s shaking, quivering thighs were resting heavily on Peter’s shoulders, practically clamping around Peter’s jug-handle ears. Wade was twitching and groaning weakly, barely fighting his bonds, anymore, as Peter teased and explored him.

 

It wasn’t long _at all_ , before Wade was actually using his _words_ to demand—no, _beg_ —Peter to fuck him.

 

“Please, baby, _need_ you . . . want your dick in me so deep and _so bad_ . . . please . . . _fuck_ _me_ , Petey . . . now, please, _now_ —”

 

“ _Shh_ , sweetheart . . . I know what you need,” Peter murmured, once he’d licked his way back out of Wade’s clutching, fluttering hole. He kissed Wade’s inner thighs tenderly. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna give it to you for as long as I can.”

 

“ _Yeah-yeah-yeah, oh, Petey_ ,” Wade chanted breathlessly as Peter sat up and shifted them both into more feasible positions, Wade’s legs still on his shoulders as Peter held him open and lined his own hard, dripping, angry-red cock up to Wade’s wet, swollen entrance. When the crown of his cock was pressed tight against Wade’s waiting body, Peter paused purposely.

 

“Now,” he said, when Wade’s squinched-shut camo-green eyes opened and met his dazedly. Peter smiled. “How do you want it, sweetheart? Slow and sweet and gentle? Or fast and nasty and hard?”

 

Wade blinked and tried to focus, then made another choked-off sound. “I— _Jesus_ , Petey, _I_ can’t choose!” he all but wailed in complaint. Peter smirked and shrugged again.

 

“Then I’ll choose for you.”

 

“Whah—” the rest of Wade’s question was lost as Peter drove himself home with one quick, sharp, implacable thrust that made them both see stars and cry out.

 

After a few minutes of stillness and bearings-gathering, Peter opened blurry eyes to see Wade panting beneath him and biting his lip almost hard enough to draw blood.

 

“Sweetheart, _stop_ ,” Peter commanded gently, leaning down to tease a kiss from Wade’s lips before he actually bloodied them. Wade moaned helplessly, submitting to the kiss even as his twitching, spasming body submitted to Peter’s cock. And when Peter pulled out, slow and steady, the head of his cock dragging across _every inch_ of Wade’s clenching hole, Wade whimpered rather pitifully, from equal parts pain and pleasure. Then he was crying out again, ragged and shameless, into their kiss, as Peter thrust into him again, harder and faster than the first time.

 

“Petey— _Petey_ —I _can’t_ —” he gasped against Peter’s mouth and around Peter's tongue, huffing out a hard breath when Peter broke the kiss to study him intently.

 

“Too much?” he asked lowly, slightly worried for his lover even as his hips automatically pistoned forward again. “Want me to—”

 

But Wade was keening high in his throat as his body clamped down _tight_ on Peter’s cock. Wet warmth spread between their bodies, soaking the hems of Wade’s t-shirt and hoodie, as well as Peter’s chest.

 

“Fuck, Wade, _honey_ ,” Peter exhaled, suddenly rather short of breath, himself, as Wade gasped and panted under him, after clenching and spasming _around_ him. “That’s so fuckin’ _hot_ . . . _love it_ when you come just from my cock in you . . . think you can come for me again?”

 

“Unh!” Wade grunted in a raw, torn voice as Peter pulled out and slammed right back in. Then did it again. And again. And—just for verisimilitude— _again_. Wade met each and every thrust with one of his own . . . weak, at first, but increasingly more intense as Peter found a rhythm they both enjoyed.

 

“For you . . . Baby Boy . . . I’ll come . . . till I pass out,” Wade panted, meeting Peter’s gaze with wet, shining, awe-filled eyes. Peter smiled beatifically and stole another kiss.

 

“ _That’s_ what Petey likes to hear, sweetheart. Brace yourself.”

 

Then Peter let his mind take a backseat to his body, driving himself deep, deeper, _deepest_ into Wade’s clenching, feverish, submissive body. In a rather short span of time, he lost track of everything but the need to seek out, fill, and _own_ the tight heat around his cock. He felt when Wade’s body locked down on him several more times as Wade came, with his own cock still untouched by either of them. He absently noticed their sweat-slippery bodies sliding against each other in ways that were sinful _and_ sweet.

 

By the time Wade came for the seventh time, dry as the Sahara and too wrecked to even voice his moans out loud, Peter was too worked up to hold back his own climax, anymore. As Wade’s muscles clamped down around him, weak, but still tight and welcoming, Peter pulled partially out one last time, then shoved himself back in as hard as he could, striving for every extra millimeter of Wade’s body—and gaining a few, surprisingly enough for him—as he finally came with a harsh and guttural shout.

 

“Petey . . . oh, _Petey_ ,” Wade husked out in his torn voice. Peter heard but really _didn’t_ , destroyed as he was by his orgasm . . . by his body pouring itself into _Wade_ both in a display of dominance and ownership, and of submission to his mate’s desire, pleasure, and overall well-being.

 

By the time he collapsed on top of Wade, drained and limp, his vision was a whited-out smear and breathing was _definitely_ at a premium.

 

Peter Parker was _done_.

 

“ _Unh_. Gotta lemme _go_ , Baby Boy,” Wade was whispering in a voice that was probably going to be a couple hours in healing properly. Then he hissed a little when Peter shifted a bit, and his utterly done-for dick slid out of Wade, followed by a veritable _waterfall_ of still-warm come.

 

It took Peter a little over five minutes to process Wade's request. When he did, he huffed. “ _Never_ lettin’ you go, sweetheart. _Never_.”

 

“Yeah, I _know_ , but Petey . . . I mean get me outta these _webs_ . . . wanna put my _arms_ around ya!”

 

It took another five minutes for Wade’s request to compute this time, too, and when it did, Peter snorted out a tired laugh, carefully running the fingertips of his shaking right hand along the silken strands binding Wade’s torso and arms, from his waist to just below his broad shoulders.

 

Then Wade’s big, shaky arms were wrapping around him, tight and protective and possessive, just the way Peter liked. “Mmm. . . .” he hummed. “’S nice.”

 

“Fuckin’ pins an’ needles,” Wade groused in his harsh, croaking whisper. Then he laughed, too. “ _So_ totally worth it, though.”

 

Peter, barely conscious, nonetheless couldn’t have agreed more.

 

He was mostly asleep when Wade’s left arm shifted off him and began _digging_ between them, in his hoodie pocket. Nearly a minute of this was enough to pull Peter away from Dreamland.

 

“What’re you _lookin’_ for, sweetie?” he demanded on the back of a sleepy/grumpy snort. Wade, too, grumbled.

 

“You’ll _see_ , Baby Boy, just— _ah_!”

 

Suddenly, Peter, far from being finally left to drift into full unconsciousness, was rolled onto his back and straddled, in one of Wade’s Special Ops-takedown moves.

 

Peter blinked up at his grinning, half-dressed boyfriend and squinted with mild asperity. “How do you have _any_ energy left after the fucking I just gave you? Should I be insulted?”

 

Wade snickered, settling comfortably on Peter’s thighs. “Now, don’t get me _wrong_ , Petey-pie, my ass is gonna be healing for most of the day, tomorrow, thanks to you!” He sighed happily, then held out his big hand, closed around some sort of object. Peter could just make out one light-blue edge. “But this’s _important_. More important than my poor, sore ass!”

 

“If there’s _anything_ in this world that’s more important than your tight, _gorgeous_ ass, sweetheart, I want it caught _immediately_ and _shot_.” Peter yawned, sliding his hands back and forth, and up and down Wade’s thighs. The other man snorted and searched Peter’s face for a few moments before taking a deep, shaking breath.

 

“Okay. Go-time,” he said under his gusty exhalation, almost as if he was talking to one of his Boxes. “Peter Benjamin Parker,” he suddenly intoned, his croaking voice drifting up into something approaching his _normal_ —also pretty gravelly—voice. “Peter, _baby_ . . . you’re the love of my life and the light in my heart. You’re the best person I’ve ever known and I love you more than I can even _say_. I _don’t_ have the right words, the romantic, _Bridges of Madison County_ -words, that you’ll remember forever. For once, the Merc With a Mouth is really just a love-struck, dumb-ass _schmuck_ who can’t use his words, but _still_ wants more than anything to ask you one thing—just _one_ question.”

 

And Wade turned his hand palm-up, opening it. In the center of that large palm sat a light-blue box with a white ribbon, and Peter’s jaw dropped.

 

He gawked at the box, then up at Wade, who was watching his face closely, intently. Then Peter looked back at the box, his mouth working around too many possible responses. But finally, his brain settled on: “Th-that’s a _Tiffany’s_ box, Wade.”

 

“Yeah, Baby Boy. It is.” Wade undid the ribbon, reaching out to drop it on his night table, but didn’t open the box. After a minute, Peter looked up at him again and Wade smiled tenderly. “I think ya know what I wanna ask ya, Petey.”

 

Peter felt his eyes widening to heretofore _unheard_ _of_ levels of sauceriness. “Yes,” he said, and Wade’s hairless, scarred brows lifted.

 

“Um. _Yes_ you know what I _wanna_ ask or, uh, _yes_ to what I wanna _ask_ ya?”

 

“Kinda to both, actually,” Peter blurted out on the back of a giggle, then covered his mouth, his wide eyes gone even wider. Wade grinned brightly.

 

“Yeah?” he asked hopefully. Peter nodded, for a moment not trusting himself to speak.

 

“Oh, yeah,” he finally risked agreeing from behind his hand. Then waggled his eyebrows. “Under one condition, though. And it’s . . . a bit of a deal-breaker.”

 

Wade’s expressive brows drew together anxiously. “A deal-breaker, huh? More so than me not unalivin’ people, no more?”

 

Peter shrugged, uncovering his twitching mouth. “That depends.”

 

“On what?”

 

Peter reached toward his desk, in the corner of their bedroom, and shot a line out to his backpack. A few moments later, the bag landed on the bed next to his and Wade’s legs.

 

Peter rifled quickly through the bag, past rolls of film, thumb drives, textbooks, and his ancient Zune. Found what he was looking for and pulled it out of his junky bag triumphantly, holding it up like a prize won.

 

Wade, who’d been watching Peter as if he’d gone suddenly mad, blinked at the small box sitting in his lover’s palm.

 

“So, uh. Here’s my condition,” Peter said slowly, placing the fingers of his free hand on the top of the black velvet box, but not opening it. “My condition for saying _yes_ , is simply this: that you, too, say _yes_.”

 

Wade’s eyes did the same saucer-thing Peter’s had done and he gaped for almost a whole minute, too.

 

“Uh . . . say _yes_ to. . . ?”

 

“Being my lawfully and lovingly wedded husband for as long as I live. To loving me and honoring me the way I will love and honor you for the rest of ever. To sharing my life and my home, my highs and my lows, my victories and my defeats. To maybe starting a family with me, some day?” Peter’s eyebrows lifted hopefully, and he blushed and looked down when Wade blinked in surprise. “To _becoming_ my family and being my soft place to fall. To letting me be the same for _you_. To letting me grow old at your side. To fight with me and make up with me, and laugh with me and just _be_ with me. Wade, I,” Peter exhaled slowly, looking up into camo-green eyes and at scarred, but _so soft_ cheeks that were wet with tears. And when Peter blinked, tears ran down _his own_ cheeks and were caught in his lashes. “So, yeah. That’s my deal-breaker. You either agree to _all_ _that_ —plus, maybe, I dunno . . . taking out the trash _and_ walking the dog in the evening—or no dice.”

 

“B-But baby . . . we don’t _have_ a dog,” Wade wibbled almost inaudibly, his eyes huge and vulnerable. Peter’s smile turned crooked.

 

“Wade . . . sweetheart,” he said with mock-gravity. “I want a dog.”

 

A teary laugh burst from Wade’s no doubt still-sore throat and the next thing Peter knew, he was being tackle-hugged to the bed, barely holding onto the small velvet box as he went down into a sea of pillows.

 

“I totally _accept_ your conditions for saying _yes_ to my question, Peter Parker!” Wade said in a shaky, tear-logged voice as he realigned Peter's spine. Peter held onto Wade just as tight, nuzzling into his lover's temple. “I accept, I accept, I _accept_!”

 

“Sooooooo, are you saying you _accept_. . . ?”

 

“ _Yes_ , smartass! But, fuck, baby, ya haven’t even seen the _bling_ , yet!” Wade realized, sitting up just enough to look down into Peter’s eyes. His own were wide once more. With worry and alarm that bordered on panic. “What if ya don’t _like_ it? Nat helped me pick it out and she said it’d be perfect, but—”

 

“I’m _sure_ I’ll love it, honey,” Peter promised, bobbing up to claim Wade’s tear-salty, kiss-swollen lips. “I hope you like the one _I_ got for _you_. It was the only one Gwen and MJ didn’t immediately veto as being too, uh . . . _tacky_.”

 

“But I _like_ tacky jewelry.” Wade pouted, holding out his left wrist to display his indeed _tacky_ QVC diamond watch. It hadn’t once kept the right time, as far as Peter knew. But Wade still loved it. It was one of his favorite _pretties_.

 

“That’s what I told _them_ , but—women. They’re right even when they’re wrong.” Peter shrugged. “Anyway.” Holding up the velvet box between them, Peter opened it at last, seeing the flash and flare of lamplight hitting emeralds, diamonds, and elegant white-gold reflecting off Wade’s handsome face. “Will you _marry_ me, Wade Winston Wilson?”

 

“ _Yes_ , Peter Benjamin Parker,” Wade said gravely, nodding and sniffling as he brought the Tiffany’s box up and removed the cover. The red and blue of rubies and sapphires set in chunky platinum dazzled Peter’s once more teary eyes. “But only if you’ll marry me _back_.”

 

“ _Yes,_  I guess, since you’ve got me by the short hairs, sweetheart. . . .” Peter beamed at his unimpressed fiancé and laughed. “Yes, of _course_ I’ll marry you, you big dope. I love you so much I can barely _breathe_ around the feeling! You think there’s any _chance_ I’m gonna let you go for even a _moment_ while there’s still breath in my body?”

 

“ _Wow_ , Petey,” Wade sighed, wiping his eyes. “That’s . . . _Jesus_ , baby. I dunno how much more of this my heart can take. It’s all too _beautiful_ to believe, ya know? I can’t even take it _in_!” he confided in a hesitant, vulnerable voice. Peter reached up to cup Wade’s soft, scarred, _beloved_ cheek in his hand, his thumb tenderly stroking-stroking-stroking.

 

“Yeah, sweetheart . . . I know. But _believe_ , okay? In you, in me, in _us_ . . . because what we have is real and _rare_ and so fucking _perfect_. So _meant to be_. We’re _inevitable_ , babe, and eternal. So trust me: Your _heart_ can take _plenty_. _Your_ heart is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart, after all,” he murmured solemnly, leaning in to seal their deal with a kiss and whispering as he did so: “’[here is the _root_ of the root and the bud of the _bud_ . . . _here_ is the deepest secret _nobody_ knows . . . i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart).](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/49493)’”

 

As always, Wade—with tears still overflowing his adoring, camo-green eyes—happily, eagerly met Peter halfway.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: I was wondering if you would write a fluff story for me based on the attached pictures **[Author’s Update: Not posting the photos HERE, since they're not mine. But here's a link to where I put out a signal boost with the art to find the artist:[Clicky!](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/post/151670710390/does-anyone-know-who-is-responsible-for-this)! And [the artist's Pixiv page](http://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=57278914) (go say hi and compliment their gorgeous art)! Thank you, Epervier, for the massive assist!]** i sent you? i don't know who drew it but i squealed with happiness when i found it. I really want Wade to get down on one knee and just pour his heart out and then Peter says yes and then takes out his ring and he pours his heart out to Wade and then there's tears and kissing and oh my heart can't take much more of this (line from merits of a work place).
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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